Mapping Love
by Moheh
Summary: History remembers Sonmi-451 as a revolutionary, a hero and even a goddess. But what it will never know and what she can only guess at, is that before and after her most famous incarnation, she was still, simply, a woman in love.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue:

It was conventional, how we met. A natural progression in my life. I was seventeen and it was at a Christmas party thrown by an elder from my father's parsonage.

Adam had just moved into town to make something of himself, as most of the men in San Francisco, and was a recent attendee of our church.

All the young women there were of course infatuated with him. A handsome, moral, _single_, young man with all the potential of the future on his shoulders. I thought him a kind, gentle man but on the whole, rather dull and put him out of my mind.

The very next day however, he came calling to our home where he sat with my father in his study for hours discussing theology and economics. Their voices carried throughout the house as a low but constant murmur, making it clear that they were the both of them very thoroughly engrossed in either topic, but when I entered to bring refreshments, I heard his argument slip on his tongue and his felt his eyes on me, though I kept my gaze down.

And apparently my father also noticed, because during dinner that night he went on and on about the wonderful qualities that Adam Ewing possessed. And why shouldn't he? For they were completely like-minded in all things.

A few days later, Adam came by again, but this time to ask my father if he could court me. My father assented and I spent every weekend and some weekdays in his company. He told me about all his dreams and plans, he marveled at my purity and beauty and praised my father's mind, but I must confess my own mind was quite elsewhere in all the time I spent in his company.

At the end of the month I accepted the inevitable. My father told me that Adam had asked for my hand and he had consented wholeheartedly. Clasping my hands in his tightly, he told me that he was so happy for me and not to mess this up. Shrinking into myself, I nodded.

We were married the first of the week.


	2. Chapter 2

The sky has already been a pale orange for several minutes before I am awake. As always, my husband holds me close, but he does not waken easily and I have become adept at escaping his embrace. Gently pulling the covers off of me, I lift his arm with them and slip away.

The morning air is cold and I dress quickly, trying not to give in to the temptation of crawling back into bed. By the time I'm done, Adam is also beginning to rouse and I run to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

Married life is, I must confess, much the same as my single one, except I have less people to cook for, for now at least.

My husband comes out to the dining room, groomed and ready for the day except for his necktie. After setting our plates down, I walk over to him and redo it. It's a great puzzle. In all the time I'd known him before our marriage, he'd always been impeccably dressed, right down to his tie, but after our vows he'd become quite hopeless, leaving me no choice but to fix it every morning. Perhaps marriage has made him lazy in that regard, but if so, it is a small vice and I must forgive him for it.

"Thank you, my dear," he says, leaning forward to kiss my cheek. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

I nod in reply and sit down.

He clears his throat before exclaiming how delectable our modest meal looks before sitting across from me. Since even before we were joined as one flesh I could tell how he was feeling, and now a month into our marriage, I am even better at it, and so I know that despite his jovial manners, he is melancholy.

However, knowing something does not mean I can do anything about it. The formerly happy man became melancholy soon into our marriage, and no matter how well I prepare meals or compliment him on his work with my father and at his job, nothing can shake him out of it, though he does try to hide it.

Breakfast is mostly taken silently, but that is not a sign of any frigidness on either of our parts toward the other. No, it is calm and I am happy that I can be at such ease with my husband and in my own home. Indeed, I didn't realize just how on pins and needles I always was in my father's home, until we moved here.

It is a small house, but it is warm and neat and perfect for us. My father helped Adam pay for it, generously giving it to us as a gift with no loans to pay back, and my favorite serving girl, Ruth. I don't think my husband would have accepted any of it though, if not for his desire to keep me in the most comfortable home he could.

Every day, it seems, he brings me back a treat or flower, promising to bring home jewels in just a few years. I tell him I don't need such frivolities, and am content with my life as it is.

When we finish our breakfast, he kisses me again, on the forehead and tells me he will not be back for lunch today. I tell him it's fine since that gives me more time to shop for groceries. Taking his pouch out, he presses two coins into my hand, telling me to buy something nice for myself.

"Oh, Adam, but I don't need anything!" I say, trying to give them back.

He moves away.

"I insist."

And with a sad little smile, he takes up his coat and leaves.

While Ruth cleans up our breakfast, I head out to the market and am looking through some very fine looking mushrooms, when I run into Sarah. It is unusual for her to do her own shopping and I express my surprise.

"I couldn't even breathe at home! I needed to get out."

I can understand. She has three small children who never stop moving or crying.

We shop together, although she makes it a bit difficult for me. She's impatient and always wanting to move on to the next stall before I've had a chance to examine all the vegetables.

When we are finished, we take our time going back to our homes, strolling around here and there and running into a few of our other friends. She remarks that it's been a while since Adam and I have visited, and invites us over for dinner on Wednesday. I tell her that sounds wonderful and we finally part.

I arrive back home just as Ruth pulls out a midday meal for me from the stove. I thank her after she finishes setting up the table and watch her disappear into the kitchen for her own meal. As I eat, I wish that I had invited Sarah over. I'm used to always being with my mother at home and I miss her dearly.

I decide to call upon her this afternoon, and am, I must admit, relieved when she tells me that my father is out. She asks me about how my marriage is going, and I confess again that I feel that something is wrong with my husband. He never seems satisfied, no matter what I do, and although he is a kind and gentle soul, it is beginning to feel like I am living with Father.

She nods wisely and tells me that that is just the way men are and as wives, we must continue doing our duty and trying to make them happy, and not be disappointed when we can't fully make them pleased.

As it gets toward evening, she tells me I must get back before my husband. Kissing her goodbye, I make my way back home quickly. Ruth is in the yard collecting our sheets after she's dried them. I head straight for the kitchen where I set up all of the ingredients I bought today. And then I take a step back, feeling as if I've forgotten something, but there is everything I need. And then with a start, I remember the extra money that Adam gave me. I feel terrible. He's always so disappointed when I don't buy anything.

I call Ruth in from our bedroom where she'd been laying out the sheets and give her the coins. I ask her to please hurry and buy some ribbons for me and to make sure she comes back before her master does. She nods and pulling her skirts up, while still keeping modest, she hurries out and away.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, I turn back to the food and try to calm my nerves. If only my father could see how hard I'm trying to be a good wife. But he still seems so displeased with me when we visit every week.

Ruth comes back in plenty of time. She's picked out some very nice ribbons that will go well with my best dress, and I thank her. I let her finish preparing dinner and go into my room and take out the dress. Holding the ribbon up next to it, I try and think of a way to incorporate them before taking out my sewing kit and stitching it on. I'm nowhere near done when I hear my husband returning, but I don't need to be. Setting my dress aside, I come out to greet him.

He looks somewhat worn, but proud of himself, and I'm glad. I ask him how the trial went and he says that he won, but doesn't go much into it other than that.

I help him remove his coat and afterward we sit down for supper. Over our meal, I tell him about how Sarah invited us over for dinner tomorrow. He nods, saying he enjoys the Jamersons' company. I can see his eyes light up thinking about the children. I change the subject.

The rest of the evening passes as it usually does. We read our bibles together and as Adam recites it aloud, Ruth listens from the corner.

And then we retire. I lay in bed, waiting for him to touch me, but he just strokes my cheek and tells me goodnight, before rolling over onto his side. It's been this way since our first week together and is quite a source of worry for me. Although I don't enjoy it, it is something that a husband and wife must do, and I know we both want children and I know he loves me, so I don't know why he won't do his duty. He is so good as a husband in every other way. He is kind to me, he enjoys my cooking, he does his job, and well, so why does he fail in this?

But my body thinks otherwise. I unfurl myself from my tense position and turn away, as well. I know it's wrong, but I can't stand this part of marriage and can't imagine how Sarah or anyone can.

I lay in bed, wide awake, until my husband's breathing changes and I know he's asleep. Sometimes I try to stay awake until he turns around and reaches out for me in his sleep, but I've never made it that far. I don't know when at night he does this, but every morning when I wake, I find him lightly pressed against me, with his arm pulling me close. I am sure that if he knew of it, he would be chagrined. And so I get up early, every morning, and sneak away so as to let him keep his dignity.

Friday evening, Adam returns early and we take a carriage back to my childhood home. My father greets us inside, affectionately welcoming the both of us. Dinner goes well. My mother and I have our own discussions while the men have theirs. I am enjoying myself until my father mentions that Sarah Jamerson is pregnant again.

I keep my eyes downcast but know that my father is watching me from behind his glass.

"Her father told me this morning. I told him I was happy for him and his daughter's fourth blessing and that I wished for the same for my own daughter."

His voice remains as cheerful as when we arrived, but I know that he is telling me that I am failing as a wife. And he is correct and to that I don't know what to say, and the table becomes still for several moments until my husband steps in.

"Haha, that's wonderful! I do love their large family! But, as I tell Tilda," he says, placing his hand atop mine. "It's not a good time to start a family for us currently. I won't be promoted for another year, and I want to focus all my energies on that."

My father nods.

"Quite right. A man should prepare all that he needs to to ensure the well-being of his family. And I am sure, after your promotion, you will both be ready."

"Yes, Lord willing," he responds.

They both erupt into laughter and I start to breath again.

Dinner continues without any further disruptions, but I've lost my appetite, which is why it takes me a while to realize that my husband is still holding my hand. I look at him sidelong and think that perhaps it was a blessing marrying such a kind man.


	3. Chapter 3

Stirring the stew absently, I look over the list again to try and figure out what it is I have forgotten. At our sewing circle the other day, Martha Christensen shared the recipe she received from her cousin in England with us, swearing that it was the finest beef stew that we would ever have, and we all promised to make it by the end of the week.

Finding nothing again, I set the list down and take a sip of the broth to reconfirm that something is missing. I call Ruth over to try it and after a moment she goes out into the backyard and comes back with a bay leaf. Chopping it up finely, she drops it into the pot and I mix it in with everything else. When I taste it again, I know that she's found exactly what it needed. Getting a pen, I go to add one bay leaf to the ingredients when I see that it's already been included. Chiding myself, I put the pen back, wondering how I could have missed it.

When there's nothing more for me to do here, I take the stew off the fire and go to my room where I've left my dress. The past few days I've barely had time to work on it and so progress has been slow, but I'm not in any hurry, I have other Sunday dresses, and I enjoy working on it little by little every day in the bit of free time I have. It's made me much more creative than in the past and I'm sure that everyone will love it once it's completed.

Adam says it's coming along nicely, and is always happy to see the progress. Sometimes in the evening we'll sit by the fire and he'll watch me sew out of the corner of his eye while he reads through Hebrews. He likes the sight of it so much that I leave it out in our room and I catch him smiling as smooths the ribbon down. I can't fathom why he likes it so, but he especially enjoys me delighting in it.

When I the door open, I put it aside and go out to greet him. At dinner, he compliments me on the stew repeatedly and I tell him that Martha gave me the recipe and that Ruth improved it greatly. He says that he can taste my contribution as well and blushing at the misgiven compliment, I ask him not to give me undue credit. After that he relapses into silence, and I'm filled up with dread. I hurriedly apologize for upsetting him.

Staring into his stew, he smiles slightly.

"You can never upset me, Tilda."

"But I always do," I say, surprising myself at my forthrightness. "Forgive me."

Laughing, he finally pulls his head up and his eyes shine out at me.

"For what? I'm sorry for worrying you," he says, covering my hand with his own. "I've just been working too hard."

Although I know he is not being honest with me, I'm afraid of disturbing him further and just nod and ask him to take better care of himself. He says that he will and I pull my hand back to resume eating. The rest of our dinner, he is lively and talks about all that happened at the office and I smile and listen attentively to everything he says, but rarely say much else, for fear I will drop him back into his melancholy.

The next day I'm feeling much better, visiting with my dear Hannah, skinning peaches for a pie and laughing about how poor Mrs. Adams thought she'd lost her bonnet, when she asks me how Adam is doing, and suddenly I'm overwhelmed with everything from the night before and all I've been feeling for the past month and burst into tears. I cover my face and turn away, but Hannah pulls me close and asks if something has happened to him.

I shake my head, but am unable to get a word out. Patiently, she guides me to a chair and waits until I've calmed down and am able to speak again.

"No matter what I do, I can't make him happy."

"Is he cruel to you?"

"No, no, never. He is the kindest person I have ever known. He won't even admit that he's unhappy with me."

Dabbing at my tear and peach stained face, Hannah smiles.

"Unhappy? In all the times I've seen you both he has only ever looked on you with affection."

"A wife knows her husband better than anyone else, and I know he is displeased with me."

"Wives can be wrong. I can't tell you how many misunderstandings James and I have had between each other."

"No, something's wrong. With me!"

"What do you do?"

I relate to her all of my daily routine, save what does not happen between us at night, and unsurprisingly, she finds nothing amiss, but patiently, she moves on, trying to find the root of my insecurity. When she asks me how Adam acts, I admit that he is a gentleman, like my father, and then start to feel foolish. When she sees that I have nothing more to add, she grabs my hand.

"Many young brides feel overwhelmed sometimes, but I promise it gets better."

I agree with her and thank her for listening to me and afterward, we go back to making our pie and I resolve to keep my silliness to myself, but from then on I find myself watching other couples.

Unsurprisingly, there is nothing that is different between us and other couples. The wives attend to the household and are mild toward their husbands, and the husbands, whatever their disposition, work hard outside the home and take charge of the home. But unlike me, they all seem vastly content. Not to say that I am not, because most of my days I am as settled in my marriage as anyone else seems to be, but no matter how I try to rid myself of my anxieties, they cling to me.

With every downcast gaze and every night that passes without him touching me, I feel more and more ill at ease and grow surer that my marriage, at its very beginning, is already falling apart.

Desperate for help, I turn to my mother. Although I'm frantic at the start of the carriage ride, by the time I arrive at her home I have calmed myself down and when she sees me, she does not suspect that anything is wrong. Happy to have an audience, she has me come in for tea and goes on about how well the new draperies she purchased, at a bargain, match the sitting room and calls for one of the maids to fetch me some excess sausages they have.

She is so excited, I know that she must not have met with anyone recently and feel guilty about sharing my problems. I debate with myself about whether or not I should say anything, barely listening to anything she says. When she hands me the sausages and says that it's getting late, I'm startled at how much time has passed and jump up.

My mother walks me to the door and tells me that I should visit again soon when I cut her off. A bit frazzled and my departure imminent, I finally say what I came to ask.

"Mother, are you happy?"

"Hm? Of course I am. Why? Do I look dour?"

I quickly reassure her that she does not and thank her for the sausages, when she opens the door. Then panicking that this may be my last chance to receive any help from her, I ask, "Is your marriage happy?"

"Oh, this again, Tilda?" she says, sighing. "I am quite content and that is all that we can ask for. Now go home to your own husband."

Sitting in the carriage, I know that my mother and Hannah are right. I should be happy, but that still doesn't stop me from feeling trapped and helpless. But at least I know that I must either suffer alone or find my own solution, and while staring out the window I see it in the form of a disobedient child, running around and making his mother give chase.

That night, I lie in our bed, praying for strength and forgiveness. Although I thanked God after our first week of marriage when Adam stopped seeking me out in the dark, I knew then as I do now that I was wrong, but I was selfish, and pretended that Adam must not want it either, but now I realize that he must have known how much I hated it.

When he comes to bed, he whispers, "Good night," as always, then rolls over onto his side, leaving a wide berth between us that neither of us ever cross.

It seems to take me hours to move, and the only thing that gets me to is the fear that he will fall asleep, but listening to his breathing, I know that he is still awake.

I turn my body toward him and watch him for several more breaths before I reach out my hand. I stare at it, wavering inches from him, before I finally place it on his shoulder. He tenses under it and immediately sits up.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"Nothing," I say, relieved that he can't see my grimace.

Also pulling myself up, I try again. I put my hand on his.

"Adam."

I expect him to take me immediately, but he's so confused that he just sits staring at my hand, until I lean in and kiss his cheek. It's the first time I've ever done so, but I try to do it like him, light and soft.

And then he draws me close.

It hurts. Not as much as the first night, but still. I try to be silent as I cry.

He holds me after and quickly falls asleep. His arm is under me and I'm afraid that he'll wake up with it numb, but whenever I try to move, he stirs, and I can't let him wake up and notice how wet my pillow is.

I pray and pray that our marriage has been repaired.


	4. Chapter 4

When I wake, it's dark and I wonder if I should try and go back to sleep, but then I smell the morning in the air and I know that I am in some trouble. While it is, of course, by no means extraordinary to find myself in my husband's arms at the dawn, I have never been so intricately wrapped in them before.

Opening my eyes, I find his face not inches from mine and this is yet knew, since we have never faced each other in bed before. As if this was not already alarming, with no space for them, my arms have become trapped between us and I can feel every breath he takes under my fingertips.

As a result, I become very aware of my own breathing, and quite of my own body's accord, I start to get into a rhythm with him. Blushing, and thinking I must get up and get to my wifely duties, I carefully draw my hands away and press them into the mat and push myself away, inch by inch. It is slow, made even slower by Adam, who stirs occasionally and pulls me back, but finally I am able to get away and release the breath I had not realized I was holding when I reach the edge of our bed.

Unfortunately, Adam nearly undermines my efforts by shifting in his sleep and ending up on my side and just a hair's breadth away from me again.

Knowing I have to get up now, I make to rise, but then am knocked back by a wave of pain and I feel the same soreness that I was subjected to my first week of marriage, and I want to lie in bed all day, but I just can not be here when my husband wakes. I just can't.

Biting my lip and trying to ignore the ache, I succeed at getting up. Telling myself that it is not unbearable, because it isn't, I hope again that last night has somehow helped my marriage.

While I'm still setting things up in the kitchen to make our breakfast, I hear Adam rise. My stomach flips in surprise and consternation. He does not usually wake so early, and I am afraid that breakfast won't be ready by the time he comes out, and I'm right. It seems only a few seconds before he steps out of our room.

Looking at him, I can tell that he threw his clothes on, which would suggest that he is in a hurry to leave, afterall, he is closing up a case today, but then he walks toward me casually and with a smile I haven't seen since we were married. And seeing that smile, I am so relieved that I smile, too.

"Good morning," he says.

"Good morning."

As soon as I finish speaking, he kisses me on the lips and I don't know what to do with all this affection. Blushing, I look down to see his still undone tie atop his disheveled clothing, and I start chiding him.

"Adam, what are you thinking?  
I leave his pants to straighten out himself, and start smoothing his collar down and pulling his shirt this way until it looks like an actual human being is inside it. As I pat it down, I can't help but notice the rise and fall of his chest again and do my best to quickly finish.

By the time he is presentable, Ruth has finally come out of her own room. Usually, she should be up before me, but today she's taken her time. I should scold her, but I am much too flustered to do so. When Adam sees her, he asks her to please finish preparing our food and to bring it to us at the table, then pulls me to my seat.

Each step that I take and even the motion of sitting down causes pain to shoot through me, but I bear it well and Adam shows no sign of noticing. I wonder if it will always hurt so much during and after lovemaking, and if all married women suffer pain throughout their lives. But I know I am being ridiculous, again, and remember that the first time was the most painful of all, but it did get better. Eventually I am sure I will grow accustomed to it. Hopefully soon.

"Today is sentencing," my husband says after he's seated, drawing all my attention to him and effectively dulling the soreness. "I don't think it will take too long, so I will be back for lunch."

"Oh, good, then I will get the shopping done early, but are you sure?"

"I think so, the lawyer on the case was rather convincing," he says with a grin.

I am about to say that he is the lawyer on the case, when I realize that is what he meant. I am surprised at his demeanor and find myself giggling. I don't think I can ever remember a time when he joked with me. Have I ever laughed in his presence before? Suddenly, I am very aware of every little exchange between us and I grow shy.

"I might be back early this evening, as well."

"Oh, no, I won't have time to prepare dinner."

"No, that's fine. Maybe I could help."

"No!" I say, turning white.

He laughs at my expression and I ask him what he's doing to me.

When Ruth brings our plates, I can not be more relieved. The change in my husband is considerable. He is lively and teasing, at my expense, but I know that I already prefer this man to the melancholy one I have known for the past several months.

Excited about the great success of my first attempt at fixing our marriage, I am filled with nervous energy, and pushing through my soreness, I put that energy into use. Going all throughout our home, I clean everything. At one point I even tell Ruth to take a rest and that I will do everything.

However, when I hear my husband call out for me, I realize the great error that I have done. Rushing out into the hall, I am about to apologize for not preparing lunch, when I smell something wonderful and see Ruth at the stove.

I thank God for her and also throw her a look of thanks, noting to myself to reward her with whatever she wants.

"Did you win?"

"I told you I was a good lawyer."

"Well, I never doubted that."

Beaming, he kisses me on the nose and says that whatever is cooking smells sumptuous.

As soon as he is gone again, I go right back to cleaning. After hanging up our clothing to dry, I go back to my room where I find my dress and determine to finish it. I call Ruth in and ask her to please go buy the groceries today and to please get something nice for herself, handing her the money, and with a "Yes, Ma'am," she's gone.

I do not slow down until the entire house is gleaming. The windows are nearly transparent, letting in every bit of sunlight, perfect for showing Adam the completed dress. Our evening is much the same as earlier in the day. He goes over every detail about his day that I have not been a part of as I cut the stems of the roses he has brought me. If I did not know any better, I would say that he is acting like a lovesick boy and with everything that I have done today, it is starting to get a bit exhausting, but I am happy to see him so animated.

When I show him my dress, he says that it is breathtaking and that he cannot wait to see me in it.

As night draws on though, my thoughts keep returning to what must happen again and although I tell myself that I already promised to do what I must and that I am being silly, I cannot help wishing that I could bypass it, at least for tonight. But I am so afraid that my husband will lose his luster that after he blows out the candle, when he searches for me, I let him.

However, when he feels my cringe, he asks me what is wrong and I confess that I am somewhat sore. He begs his forgiveness and I tell him that it is fine, and he contents himself by draping his arm over my shoulders.

Before he falls asleep, I hear him whisper, "I love you, Tilda," into my hair.

The following weeks reveal that things have indeed improved between us. We are once again relaxed in each other's company and without any tension, real or imagined.

The nights have gotten better, as well. To my relief, I found that the pain did subside and now the soreness does not last long at all. And besides, I am now more concerned about something else. Sometimes in my free time I sew the beginnings of a little bonnet or shirt, before unraveling it. I do not know if I am pregnant, but sometimes I imagine a tiny babe moving inside me, which is impossible, but I indulge in the fantasy anyway.

My father notices the change in our relationship too, and he has stopped subtly criticizing me, even behind my husband's back.

One quiet evening, after our bible study, I am reading through an engrossing novel while Adam organizes and looks through some of his notes, when he pops his head up and asks me if I am happy.

Without hesitation I tell him I am, and even look up from my book long enough to give him a smile.

"I'm glad," he says, before returning to his work, but I am, from then on, unable to concentrate on my book. I can't help but think over the changes that have occurred in both of us with satisfaction. I think we must be as perfectly happy as any married couple can be.

The next day, I am kneading dough when I feel a dull ache in my stomach. At first I try to ignore it, but when it continues I force myself to go to the toilet. I know what it is, but with how well my life has been going recently, I hold out hope that I am wrong, but when I check and see the familiar blood stains, my heart sinks.

I do not know why it has upset me so much. I know I have not had a miscarriage, but... I think of Sarah and Hannah and Jane with their children. Even Sarah, who always complains about them, looks so happy when she is with them, and thinking of them now, I know that more than anything I want a child. It is the one thing missing in my life.

When I told Adam I was happy, it was the truth, but having tasted a little happiness, I have become greedy. I want more and more.


End file.
